


The Adventures of Two Jumpy Victors in Annie's Kitchen

by thankyoufinnick (mildred_of_midgard)



Series: Mags-verse One Shots [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Agoraphobia, Annie's lizard brain speaks in run-ons, Flashbacks, Food Fight, Gen, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Implied/Referenced Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Insomnia, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Social Anxiety Disorder, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-11 23:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5645839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildred_of_midgard/pseuds/thankyoufinnick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cooking, panicking, and laughing together: what better way to get to know someone? Finnick and Annie, the early days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventures of Two Jumpy Victors in Annie's Kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> This fic basically consists of missing scenes from Chapter 2 of _Mags' Weapon_ , but it probably works even if you haven't read that. If anything doesn't make sense, let me know and I can tweak it to clarify the backstory.

Outside, the rain is falling steadily, and the Victors' Village is quiet. Inside, Annie's baking to try to calm her jagged nerves, but her hands are shaky, and it's not going well. Maybe instead of using her knife to try to carve out fun shapes in the dough, she'll just use the standard round cookie cutter.

That's not one of the things they warn you about when they're talking about the aftermath of the Hunger Games. _Your cookies will be boring._

_And burnt, when the timer on the stove goes off and scares you and you hide before you can take them out. Eventually the smoke alarm goes off and the Village is so quiet everyone can hear it, and they come banging on your door..._

The part with the smoke alarm didn't happen...she thinks. But the images in her mind are as vivid as if it did.

Annie doesn't use the timer any more. Instead, she sits facing the clock, writes down on her cooking notepad the time at which they should be done, then tries to note the current time on the paper once a minute, until she reaches the “cookies done” time. Overkill for anyone else, but it keeps her from zoning out too much. Eight to ten minutes is a really long time.

Once she gets a batch to come out right, she'll send some home with Marcus, the boy she pays to run her errands, and ask him to take some over to the other Victors' houses, especially Donn. Maybe it'll make up for yesterday.

Can you be humiliated at your own behavior and furious at someone else's at the same time? When they were only trying to help? Annie feels like she should be extra nice to Donn, who mentored the boy who died protecting her, but she's learned two things since coming back from the arena. One, everyone has been extremely nice to the mad girl. Two, nice is not the same thing as helpful.

 _I wasn't going to do anything. I just needed to lock myself in the bathroom until you all went away._ Foam, Donn's wife, had rattled the doorknob, making Annie scream in wordless panic that was contagious, until everyone fled and Mags was summoned. Mags is the cavalry around here, Annie's learning.

At least Mags left her alone after extracting a promise that she wouldn't hurt herself. But Annie spent the night curled up in the tub, the smallest safe place she could find without leaving the bathroom, and every muscle is protesting today. She just hopes the cookies can get her to stop reliving her nightmares.

Seven minutes. Three since her last mark on the page. _Focus_ , Annie tells herself. _One per minute. Almost there._

The pen goes flying at the sound of rattling at her doorknob, and she jumps to her feet wildly. _No, no, they've come back...But what if it's not them, what if it's Peacekeepers? What if it's my aunt, demanding more money? What if-_

“Hey,” a cheerful voice calls through the closed door. “This week's pills. Marcus called in sick.”

The voice is familiar, but through the panic it still takes her time to place it. Then more time to decide how to act, while she stands frozen in the middle of the kitchen where she leapt out of her chair. Embarrassed by her own indecision, Annie finally breaks it and heads for the front door.

The door starts opening just as Annie's getting to it, and she takes two quick steps back.

“I was just going to drop them on the floor inside,” Finnick explains, pulling Mags' key out of the knob. “Didn't want them disappearing if I left them on the porch. Food delivery tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Annie swallows, and accepts her medication. “Thank you.” She wonders if he's heard about yesterday's fiasco, and then wonders how quickly she can close the door and still be polite before she has to find out that the answer is 'yes'. She's no longer quite so afraid he'll hurt her, but he'll laugh at her.

Finnick leans against the doorjamb, not in a way that blocks her from closing the door on him, but smiling like he wants to chat. “Haven't seen you in a while.”

_Don't ask me how I am, don't ask me how-_

“Hope the pills are helping. Cooking something?” Finnick asks, sniffing the air through the doorway.

Annie jumps again, this time in frustration at herself. “Damn!”

She runs to the kitchen, fumbles with the potholders, then remembers she should have turned off the stove first, and finally gets the door open and the tray out. The cookies are overdone, of course. Growing up, she would have cried with joy over a burnt cookie. In the Village, she can't distribute these as gifts.

Annie can't take it any more. With an inarticulate scream of fury, she turns around and hurls the contents of the tray into the kitchen behind her.

Coming inside the kitchen, Finnick throws up his arms instinctively and turns his face away. “Aahh!”

Annie gasps, afraid she's hurt him, but he's straightening a second later, having managed to even catch one in mid-air. “Food fight!” he cries, and hurls it back at her.

With quick reflexes, Annie hoists up the tray she's holding in front of her. The cookie shatters on impact and crumbles to the floor.

“Not fair,” Finnick complains, “you have a shield.”

“But it's too hot,” Annie says, and sets it down on the stove before it can burn through the potholders to her hands. She grabs a handful of cookies that fell to the floor at her feet and throws them at him.

Cookies fly back and forth until there's nothing but crumbs left, and Annie's sitting on the floor laughing and pretending she's not crying.

Laughing too, Finnick sits down cross-legged on the floor opposite her. “Man, those things were lethal weapons.”

“Guess they had to be good for something. Do you know that's the second batch I've burned?” she complains, her voice wavering. “Can't get anything right-”

“Well, this one was clearly my fault,” Finnick says before she can finish that sentence, “so I owe you a batch of cookies, that's all. Besides, third time's the charm, right?”

Annie pushes a pile of crumbs around with her fingers. “I wish.”

In an instant, Finnick's on his feet. “Where's your broom? I'll help clean up, since I take responsibility for distracting you, and I'll bring you replacements from the bakery cafe on Fifth. Sugar cookies? How many?”

“It's not the same,” Annie grumbles, before she can realize how rude that sounds, “they're supposed to be for other people, and cooking's supposed to be my new hobby...”

“Food fighting is my new hobby.” Finnick grabs the broom from the corner. “Hey, looks like you still have cookie dough on the counter. How long does it take?”

Annie gets up to fetch the dustpan and takes the broom from him. She's the one who threw the cookies in the first place, after all. “Less than fifteen minutes, but I keep getting distracted anyway, and I'm not really in the mood now.”

“What if I offer to get them out on time? I owe you one. And I've been trained to keep track of time.”

“Really?” Annie looks up from her sweeping, curious.

“Yeah, they didn't want us falling asleep when we were supposed to be on guard in the arena. So they'd get us sleep-deprived, then partner us up in a dark room in the academy, and have us trade three-hour shifts on guard. To make sure we were staying alert, and to avoid doing anything that might wake us up if we'd fallen asleep, they'd use a laser to silently flash random numbers on the opposite wall. In the morning, you and your partner had to be able to recount the numbers you saw and the approximate time at which you saw them. So you were counting on your partner to get the ones that were shown when you were asleep.”

“Wow. What'd they do if you couldn't?”

“If either of you screwed up, you _and_ your partner were banned from the academy for three days. Even the one who got theirs right. Rudder said performances got a lot better after he introduced the 'and your partner' part. Kids can maybe shrug off their own lack of effort, but not if their peers are furious at them.”

Annie dumps the first full dustpan into the bin. This is going to take a while. “So that makes you an expert on-time cookie-retriever?”

Finnick bows. “A man of many talents. Want to give it a shot?”

Annie considers. She's having a rough day. But she's had worse. He seems genuinely to want to help. And here she is, talking with him again, like they never run out of things to say.

“Here, what do you do with this stuff?” Finnick is poking at the dough in the big silver bowl, which he's placed on the table. “You have to tell people I helped.”

“You get the rolling pin and roll it out. Here, you finish sweeping, I'll do it. And you can watch them in the oven.”

With someone to talk to and play with, making yet another attempt at baking isn't rubbing in failure as much as it would be if Annie were alone.

Obediently, Finnick takes the broom. “Remember, if I hadn't come over with my spectacularly bad timing, we wouldn't have had the food fight. Which, by the way, thank you for being game for. You're officially the only one in this place who's any fun.”

“What, the kids outgrew playing with their food?” Annie sticks out her tongue. Donn's grandkids are seven and nine.

“Yeah, they're too mature for us,” Finnick retorts. “Anyway, you started it, which gets you points in my book.”

 _I guess there are worse people who could have caught me having a tantrum over cookies._ Once Annie's finished forming the dough into cookies and put them in the oven, they sit down at the table, Finnick with one eye on the clock.

“So where's this bakery you were talking about?" she asks. "Can I send Marcus?”

“You can go yourself if you want. It's only a few minutes from the gate of the Village.”

“I'm sure ten miles is only a few minutes for you,” Annie grants, “but some of us take a few minutes just to get _to_ the gate.”

Finnick laughs at the teasing. “A few blocks. Six. Something like that. I'll show you if you want to go.”

“Maybe some other time.” It's what Annie always says when someone makes this offer.

Finnick's eyes are roaming the room, and when he spots the notepad on the table in front of her, he gestures toward it with his chin. “Keeping track of time?”

“Trying to,” Annie says. Her hand crumples the top sheet of paper up. Of course he can read upside down and see how pathetic she is. Normal people just make a mental note of the time and take the cookies out when they're done.

She changes the subject, fishing for small talk. “Why isn't the Victors' Village on the beach?”

“Too important for commerce,” Finnick explains. “Even back in Mags' day, before they started building any villages, all the ocean front property was taken. It was a choice between putting the Village on the beach in the middle of nowhere, or putting it near restaurants and shops, but also near the docks. The populated part of Four is a long thin line along the coast.”

Annie's disappointed. “So there's nowhere quiet around here?” Finnick grew up in this neighborhood, but she lived so far south you have to take a ferry to get there. She knew people her age who did, attracted by the academy, but she never came here before the Capitol dropped her off in this house, and she hasn't left the house since. She misses the ocean, but she couldn't handle the crowding. Especially not if the ocean ends up reminding her of her flood.

“If you want to go for a swim?” Finnick thinks. “There's an inland pond. It's all fished out, and used for recreation by anyone who has time for recreation, which means it'll probably be just us most of the time.”

“All right. Maybe some-”

“Other time,” Finnick finishes. Annie's face turns hot, but Finnick continues without missing a beat, “When it's not raining. I'm not too thrilled at the prospect of being in a pond in the rain.”

Annie's not one of the people who go around memorizing the Hunger Games, but Finnick's are on replay so much that the highlights are burned into everyone's mind. His worst injuries came toward the end of his Games from an acid rain, from which he took refuge in—a pond? A stream? She can't remember that part.

Finnick extracts the cookies from the oven while she wonders how bad it is for him. He sets the tray on the stove to cool and rejoins her at the table.

“I can,” Finnick says to the question on her face. “But I prefer not to. I don't have very vivid flashbacks, but it can be pretty uncomfortable to be convinced that you need to stay underwater until the rain stops, even if you can keep yourself from doing it.”

“Well, thanks for coming over today,” Annie says, more impressed now. “But it doesn't bother you if there's no pond around?”

Finnick makes a noncommittal sound. “It did when I was fresh out of the arena. But it's wearing down over time. And when I'm out on the ocean, it doesn't bother me at all, because I've got something to occupy one hundred percent of my concentration.”

“I can't seem to concentrate at all these days,” she confesses. If he doesn't like rain, he can't very well make fun of her. “That's why my cookies keep dying horrible deaths. And I know, I was making muffins last month. Every time I think I'm getting better, I get worse again.”

“You're getting better,” Finnick says encouragingly. “And I have no idea if I could concentrate on anything right after my Games, because I don't think I ever tried. I couldn't hold still long enough.” He laughs, and his eyes unfocus while he remembers something.

“What?” Annie asks, a smile hovering around the corners of her mouth.

Finnick lounges back in his chair, his arms folded behind his head. “I won't say I suffered more than you in my first few months, because obviously. Of course not. But I will say that _Mags_ suffered a lot more dealing with me.”

“Oh come on!” Annie protests. “The poor woman had to move in with me, get me through each day-”

Finnick shakes his head. “The poor woman wasn't allowed to move in with me, but she had to babysit me just the same. Much harder!”

“You didn't have to be spoonfed by hand!”

“You didn't go around the Village asking everyone if they won at fourteen.”

Annie's mouth opens, then closes. She starts laughing with him. “Okay, you were a terrible child. But I wasn't terrible, I was a wreck.”

“I was completely manic. You never had to be talked down from walking the roof because you were bored and wanted to show off your balance.”

Annie can't believe she's even having this conversation, but somehow talking about her symptoms isn't so bad if she's trying to one-up him. “I had to be talked out from under the bed. Out of the closet. The cabinet under the sink.”

“I got kicked out of the academy—and I was Rudder's favorite student! But he told me to come back when I could behave like a human being again, and meanwhile he had Careers to get ready for next year.”

“I got kicked off Flickerman. I think. I don't remember that part too well.” Annie had screamed and cried and refused to talk through her interview, in front of the entire country, which at least got her out of future interviews but means she can't look anyone in the country in the eye. But here Finnick is twinkling his eyes at her.

“I couldn't sleep, and half the time I had too much adrenaline to notice, and the other half of the time I was dying of exhaustion and still couldn't sleep. And I wouldn't listen to anyone who told me I was out of control.”

“I didn't want to get out of bed, ever, and Mags had to drag me out and make me get dressed and go downstairs to eat something. That was after she stopped handfeeding me in bed.”

Finnick stands up. “Okay, there's only one way to settle this.” A minute later he's half bent over Annie's counter, leaning on his elbows, and talking into her phone. “Hey, Mags, who was more exhausting after we came out of the arena, me or Annie?...Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. How much more?”

He hangs up and faces Annie triumphantly. “I was ten, maybe one hundred, times more exhausting. Apparently you stayed in one place and didn't come up with arguments. I had to be chased all over the district and talked out of half a dozen ideas before breakfast.”

_But you didn't yell at Mags or tell her you hated her or shove her out of your bed and then hate yourself because what if she fell and broke her back and you killed yet another district partner who was only trying to save you-_

Finnick wags his finger at her. “Unh uh. Mags says. Whatever it is you're thinking, she was there for it and she says I was worse. You can't argue with that.”

_But you don't hate yourself for it._

Considering that the final statement on the subject, Finnick wanders over to the stove. “Now, do you want to be handfed, or not? These should have cooled off by now.” He grabs a cookie and holds it out for her to take a bite.

Because he's been laughing with her, not at her, and it has been making her feel better, Annie obligingly lifts her face to take a bite out of the cookie held in mid-air. She opens her right hand underneath her chin to catch the crumbs that fall.

Then her neck cramps from being held at that angle, and in the middle of her bite, Annie moans and grabs her neck with her left hand to work out the kink.

Instantly, Finnick drops the cookie on the table and grabs the back of her chair. Not her shoulder, for which she's grateful. “What's wrong? Are you hurt?”

Annie's mouth is full and she's in pain, and she can't answer right away, frantically trying to chew and massage and swallow without choking.

“Did someone hurt you?”

She doesn't want to answer, because no, it's worse than that. No one's ever laid a hand on her, not even in the arena, and she still broke. She breaks herself.

But Finnick's expression has gone taut with concern, and he's half kneeling by her chair, so once she can talk again, Annie just shakes her head and says as lightly as she can manage, “Nah, just slept in an awkward position.”

Finnick takes a deep breath, releases the chair, and steps back with a visible effort. “Okay. But if someone had, you would tell us? Me?”

That's why he's here in the first place. Mags has instructed the other victors to make sure she gets comfortable enough to reach out to them if something is wrong. “What if it's one of you?” Annie whispers.

“Then tell me. There's no one in this village I couldn't take.”

“What if it's you?” she persists. No one said she couldn't be cruel.

Finnick doesn't flinch. “Then it's by accident, and you'll tell me what I'm doing wrong, and I'll stop. I stopped trying to comfort you during your episodes.”

He had, after she elbowed him in the windpipe, broke free of his arms, and crawled under the couch, screaming for him to leave her alone. Unlike Donn and practically his whole family, who still keep trying to comfort her and get her to stop melting down. They don't seem to understand she can't stop.

“I went back and forth before I decided to unlock your door without knocking today,” Finnick continues, “but you've never yet responded to a knock, and I thought maybe it was a hassle to answer the door.”

A hassle. You could say that. She has to run through the list of possibilities of who it could be, of what they might say, of how they'll react if they realize she's here and doesn't want to talk to them, of whether she can handle company even if it's someone she trusts...It's easier just to hide and pretend she didn't hear the knock.

“I was just going to drop the bag off and leave when you answered—and I know I wasn't formally invited in, but you know I'll leave if you ask me to.”

She does. Which is good, because she would be scared to death of trying to kick him out. “No, it's easier if you just open it yourself. Just you, though, I don't want-”

Finnick says firmly, “Annie, I'm not handing the key to anyone else. Mags lets me borrow it and that's all. Donn doesn't have one, Marcus doesn't, no one does. Okay?”

Annie nods. “Okay. Then you can just let yourself in and leave if I ask you.”

“Deal. And I thought twice before throwing cookies at you, but you seemed more frustrated than panicky, and you threw first, so I thought you'd be okay with it if you had some warning of what was coming, but if not, tell me.”

She smiles. “No, that was fun. You were right. But never if I'm panicky-”

“Never! I'm not stupid.”

Annie sags a little in her chair in relief. “Thanks.” She doesn't know exactly what she's thanking him for, making her laugh on a day like this, helping with the third batch, or coming over in the first place.

Finnick mirrors her relief. “So nothing you want to tell me to start or stop doing?”

She shakes her head.

“And you'll come to me if anyone hurts or threatens you?”

“Promise.” Something occurs to Annie. “Does that mean Mags will stop telling you to come over?”

“Oh, Mags stopped a while ago now. I come for the food fights. Besides, how are you going to tell me anything if you never see me? It's not like I'm ever at home. Though do call me at night if you need to, I do sleep there sometimes.”

“Deal. But nothing happened yesterday, I just slept wrong.” Annie bites her tongue immediately, wishing she could take back the words. Yes, news travels quickly in the Village, and everyone probably knows by now that she had another meltdown in the presence of company yesterday, but here she is bringing it up like she wants to talk about it. Now it'll be her fault when she has to ask him to leave.

Maybe Finnick reads the storm breaking out on her face, because he ignores the reference to yesterday's events and just guesses understandingly, “Under the bed?”

Annie averts her eyes, not wanting to admit it, but okay, he doesn't want to go out in the rain, so maybe she can say it. “In the bathtub,” she confesses, looking at the freezer instead of him.

“I've definitely dropped off while taking a bath. It's the insomnia, never asleep when you're lying on your back in bed at night, and always crashing whenever you're sitting around during the day.”

She knows he's trying to make her feel better about being the only one to come out of the arena this broken, but he's just showing that he can't conceive of how bad she has it. “That still sounds a lot saner than my night.”

“Should I call Mags again? Get stats on us?” Finnick asks mock-threateningly, and Annie instantly holds her hands up in surrender. “No water, I take it?” he says more seriously. “You just need more bedding to make it comfortable. I'm getting the sense you like small spaces.”

Annie's confused. “Aren't you supposed to be getting me to be _less_ crazy?”

Finnick barks with laughter. “Annie, I guess you can't see Rudder's house from here, but he's across the street from me, and I promise you, every night that he's not teaching at the academy, you can see an upstairs light on. Why? If someone comes in and he's not supposed to kill them, he wants to be able to see instantly that they're not a threat. And if someone comes in and is a threat...he wants the advantage of being able to eliminate them in good lighting.

“I promise you, there's only one victor here who sleeps normally, and you know what? Maybe by the time I'm seventy-five, I'll sleep normally too.”

Annie taps her fingers on the table, thinking about that. Rudder's the scary-as-hell one, scarier even than Finnick because he never smiles.

_At least if they came for him, he could do something. He wouldn't have to watch his district partner die defending him from the Career pack._

But okay. She gets the picture. Even if she's the craziest one here, Finnick's trying to tell her she doesn't have to be so embarrassed about it. At least not with him.

“Another cookie?” she suggests, with a smile, and Finnick leaps on the idea.

“Marcus will probably be out again tomorrow,” he says a few minutes later while nibbling on his. “If you give me your shopping list for this week, I can take care of it.”

In the Village, the victors have a tradition of overpaying kids of reaping age to run errands, clean, cook, or whatever they need, to keep them from needing to take tesserae. It helps make up for not always being able to get a volunteer. Not that it saved Annie, but she still wants to participate in this tradition. A dozen or so kids a year may be a small dent in the total population, but Annie knows that even if she can only make a difference to one person at a time, it doesn't mean that person is any less grateful.

Annie figures Finnick could just pass the list on to whoever's doing his laundry this year, but if he wants to drop by himself tomorrow, she's not going to argue. She takes the list from where she's stuck it to the fridge door. “Here, let me add a couple things. I think I'm in the mood for roast chicken.”

“I can bring it in time for dinner tonight, if you want,” Finnick offers.

“In the rain?” she teases gently. “Thanks, but I'm out of cooking energy today. But tomorrow I think I'll stay away from baking.”

“Sounds good. Let me know if you want me to drop by for the preparations. I have almost no experience cooking anything that isn't either seafood or, strangely enough, waffles, but I'm very trainable.”

Annie giggles nervously. “I thought you were going to say you're very good with knives.” She's still not quite comfortable remembering that her new neighbors are Career victors, even if they haven't killed her yet.

“I'm okay with knives, but much better with forks,” Finnick says with such a straight face that it takes Annie a minute to get the joke. 

Then she's laughing so hard she can barely talk. “You! Have you used that line before?”

Finnick smirks. “That and others like it, all the time. Do you believe Mags yet?”

“Fine, yes, I believe her. You're the most impossible person she's ever met, and that's saying something at her age. Anyway, thanks for the offer, but poultry's easier. If you overcook it by a few minutes, it doesn't notice.”

“Great. And now I'd better be on my way. Need to put in some time at the academy.” He gets to his feet. “Thanks for the food. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks for the help. Oh-”

Finnick stops.

Annie gives him her best smile. “Can I exploit you just a little more? Can you run a bunch of these over to Donn's house? I'm not eating two dozen cookies. And I don't know who else would like them, but feel free to help yourself.”

Finnick starts helping her put them in a small covered basket. “Rudder's got me and him on strict diets, but Brine likes his food, and Mags'll be delighted. And Octavius, who knows. I'll give it a shot.”

If she can't leave her house, maybe she can reach out a little bit anyway.

* * *

“Special delivery!” True to his word, Finnick is letting himself in without knocking, and dropping bags on the kitchen table. Annie hears the noise and comes downstairs, still in her nightgown, with her hair unbrushed. Outside, the sun is climbing over the horizon.

“Sorry if it's too early,” Finnick apologizes, “but I barely slept, and I'm going out on a fishing boat today, so maybe I'll sleep tonight. I saw you had lemon and basil on your list, but I included some rosemary too anyway, because it's better.”

 _I can only imagine what you were like when you were out of control._ “All right, I'll make sure you have rosemary on yours,” Annie says without thinking, laughing a little, and then feels stupid at her own assumption. “Or, I mean, next time you-”

But he's smiling easily. “Just let me know when it's dinnertime.”

Annie takes a deep breath and braces herself. This is where she has to be honest about the mess that's her life now. “You're welcome to poke your head in at seven and see where things stand, but that's a long time from now, and I can't promise what kind of state the food will be in, or me.”

Yesterday ended up counting as a good day because she only cried twice and laughed more than twice, but the day before was a bad one. She might end up back in bed for the rest of today, hiding under the covers because she can't face the world.

“Deal,” Finnick promises. “I brought you another surprise too.” Then he turns around and hauls in more bags from the porch, these ones huge and overflowing. “Blankets and pillows for the bathtub, closet, or whatever other space you find yourself in. Because victors stick together, and we all have scars.”

Helplessly, Annie strokes the fabric of a quilt where it's spilling over the edge of its bag. Thick and soft, just the thing. “Thank you,” she whispers.

When he's gone, off to the sea, Annie unpacks the gifts. Red and gold with a leaf pattern. Forest green. Light blue and rich brown. Black and white plaid. Sleeping cats.

She tries not to feel guilty about having nice things. The kids who run her errands need the money. Whoever was selling these was hoping someone would buy them. Might go hungry if no one bought them. Might watch their kid die in the arena.

Reminding herself of that, she pulls the pillows out one by one. They're not only in different colors and textures, but sizes. Big ones for when she's in the tub. Small ones for when she's under the bed.

It takes a few trips to get everything upstairs, especially still sore from her night in the bathroom, but definitely worth it. She's not panicking right now, so she doesn't need to hide, but the new bedding is so enticing that she wants to do something with it.

Standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips, Annie surveys her bedroom speculatively. This is her safe space. No one comes in here, not since Mags decided she was okay to live on her own. This house was pretty much forced on her, and so she's by and large left it the way she found it, but she could change things up if she wanted to. 

Annie locks the door behind her and gets to work.

With difficulty, she drags her bed from the middle of the floor over to the wall. She can do it, if she just goes very slowly and budges it inch by inch. Then she sits down to catch her breath before moving the chest of drawers next to the bed.

Much better. It's not exactly a small, enclosed space, but it's a lot closer. Having the wall on one side and drawers on the other will also help keep the pillows from falling constantly on the floor. 

Then she arranges the quilts on the bed. They're huge, and she can make burrows! Like a rabbit. Or a fox, in its den. It may be silly, but this is the safest Annie's felt since Reaping Day.

Another sleeping pill, a conscious effort to think about the new pillow she's clutching and not about being hunted, and she actually manages to stay asleep this time.

But she's too groggy to cook when she wakes up, so she scrambles some eggs, eats them with bread, and goes back to bed, to lie there thinking about how her life ended at sixteen. If she didn't have money, she certainly couldn't earn it. If she didn't have people bringing her food, she certainly couldn't get it for herself. If she had any friends who wanted to come over even after they watched her humiliating breakdown on national television, she can't handle company. None of her family, not her aunt and uncle who raised her or the cousins she thought of as sisters, want anything to do with her now except her winnings.

When Annie hears noises from downstairs and sees from the clock on her nightstand that it's seven, she tucks her head under the biggest of the new pillows and tries not to hear anything. The bedroom door's locked. She's safe in here.

The house grows quiet again.

Around three in the morning, she's finally awake enough to go downstairs. She keeps snacks in her bedroom, but she's properly hungry again and needs a real meal.

On the table, Annie finds a white paper bag and a note pinned to it.

_From the bakery cafe. Not suitable for food fights._

Inside, she finds a piece of fudge. She's never even had fudge.

Annie takes a tiny bite and almost dies. This is going to go amazingly with roast chicken and potatoes.

When she's ready to start basting, she hesitates over the rosemary. No, he's probably sleeping, had a long couple days it sounds like. She can call at three am if she needs help, but she can't wake him up at three am to invite him over for a belated dinner.

Lemon and basil it is, then. And it's delicious. And she was right about the fudge topping it off perfectly.

When she was growing up, she ate last. First her uncle, then her aunt, then her cousins, in descending order of age, then Annie, the adopted orphan. By the time it was her turn, there wasn't much left. She went into the arena weighing barely eighty pounds, and came out weighing less. She couldn't even have eaten anything as rich as fudge until recently. When Mags fed her dessert, it was something like gingerbread, and even that was decadence unknown.

* * *

It's four days of nightmares, tears, and sleeping all day--Annie's new normal--before she has a good enough day that she's in the kitchen again, looking at her cookbook. She hates that it's the only thing she can occupy her time with any more, but at least she has enough to eat now and the opportunity to get creative. She flips through the cookbook before deciding that she's too hungry after days of snacking to experiment with recipes. She'll make what's becoming her old faithful, and try to venture into new territory tomorrow. Or later tonight. It's ten pm, and she might be awake for a long time.

She's bored, she has no one to talk to, she has no hobbies in this stupid jail of a house, and she misses her old life.

 _Would you rather be hungry or mad?_ she taunts herself.

She doesn't remember the last time she laughed. No, that's not true. She does.

Annie's finger hesitates over the phone for a good five minutes, moving closer and then curling back up again.

Curfew's at eleven, but Finnick insists that moving between houses within the Village is a permissible bending of the rules. Annie wouldn't dare try it even if she could go outside, but this is Finnick. They probably bend more rules for him than anyone in the districts.

Before she can stop herself, she punches out the number.

“Hey, Finnick. It's Annie. So sorry about the other night, I was sleeping.” It's a little white lie that will hurt less than _I didn't want to see you._ “I don't know if our timing will ever line up, but I'm cooking now if you're hungry.”

He's probably going to bed, or finishing up one of those dinner parties he hosts, or just ate, or victors just don't do this, or...

“I'd love to, Annie. I'll be right over.”

Annie sets down the phone and breathes. That wasn't so hard. She's the new victor here, and she's still learning how to fit in. Mags said to think of it as having a new family, but it's more like moving to a whole different country where she doesn't know anyone, _and_ she's gone mad to boot. She's still not sure who tolerates her because Mags said the fragile new girl needs to be protected, and who would be happy to come over on one of her good days. She does hope Finnick's telling the truth about not doing this any more because Mags told him to, because she knows he's completely devoted to Mags and would do it for her even if he hated it, and never let on.

She's still standing by the phone when a knock comes. Her stomach leaps, then she argues furiously with it. _It's him, it would be too much of a coincidence to be anyone else._

Finnick's voice floats from the door. “Annie, let me in and feed me!”

_Come on. He doesn't despise you. He just ate half a cookie to be polite, but he said he enjoyed the food fight. He said._

With an effort, Annie breaks the paralysis, moving fast to the door to not keep him waiting any longer.

“Sorry,” Finnick says as soon as he steps inside, “Mags is early to bed, early to rise, and I didn't want to wake her up while I grabbed her key. I don't actually know where she keeps it.”

Again, Annie doesn't know how things work here. “Maybe you should get a copy made?” she hazards. “Can you do that?”

“Sure, if you don't mind. I promise not to abuse the privilege.”

“You haven't so far. Anyway, I wanted to say thank you for the extra bedding. I slept wonderfully. In my own bed,” she adds to the unasked question. “During the day. Like a normal person.” With irony.

Finnick laughs. “Glad to hear it. I should tell you I totally got in trouble over your cookies.”

Annie's jaw drops. “Whaat?”

“News travels fast in the Village. And no sooner did I drop off the cookies than I found myself in the academy the next day having to account for my behavior to Rudder. 'I heard your name and the word 'cookies' in the same sentence, boy. Explain yourself.'”

Annie's only met Rudder a couple times, but Finnick does a decent imitation of the hard-nosed drill sergeant demeanor, making her shiver deliciously.

“I had to talk very fast about how I was only the delivery boy to get out of that one. I think Rudder maybe has a sense of humor.”

Annie frowns skeptically.

Finnick raises a hand. “I know, I know. But either he's really that uptight about my diet and doesn't trust me an inch, or he's affectionately giving me a hard time about hanging out in your kitchen making cookies. I prefer to think it's the second one. If only because I'm his favorite and he should trust me more than that. But it is hard to read him. He could really be that uptight.”

“Wow. I hope he's okay with roast chicken, potatoes, and asparagus.”

“That sounds like it would pass the Rudder muster. Lead the way.”

“I think I'll mash the potatoes,” Annie tells him as they head toward the kitchen. “I tried roasting them last time, but I haven't quite got the hang of that yet, and I prefer feeding guests things I know how to make. But I shouldn't need help with the timing. The last chicken turned out delicious when I finally made it. I would have invited you, but I didn't start cooking until three in the morning, and I figured you were sleeping.”

“Yeah, I slept about twelve hours that night. Felt good.”

“Oh, I'm glad." She's genuinely relieved for him, because she knows what it's like to be exhausted and not be able to sleep. Easier now that she has her pills, but then she's just muzzy half the day. "Make yourself comfortable. Now you can tell Mags I exploit you and I feed you.”

Finnick sits down at the table and watches as she checks on the potatoes. “I like being useful, what can I say? Let me know if you want a hand with anything.”

“I was actually going to ask for a favor. There's no hurry, it's just a hobby, but I was wondering if the next time you're near a lumberyard, you could pick some wood and tools up for me? I know you keep busy, so whenever you have time.”

Finnick waggles his eyebrows inquisitively. “I'd be glad to. Going to build a boat?”

“Woodcarving," Annie answers, snapping asparagus ends. “I used to fool around with stray blocks of wood that were too small to use and try to carve little figures out of them. I think I could get better if I practiced, and I have nothing else to do any more. I'd send Marcus, but I don't know how much anything costs, and this way you can just tell me and I'll pay you back instead of having to figure it out upfront. The blankets too. I'm sorry, I was half asleep when you brought them, but I'm not oblivious--I was planning on paying you back.”

Finnick makes a dismissive sound. “I can hardly charge you for something you didn't even ask for. It was a gift I was hoping would work out.”

“Well, it did work out, so I feel I should pay. The fudge can be a gift if you want.”

“You have yourself a deal. Most of my winnings go to help fund the Career academy, so I do try to keep my expenses deliberate. Your blankets went on the list of purchases that were definitely worth it, but I won't say no to being reimbursed if you're sure. Give me your woodcarving list, then, and I'll learn something new about identifying tools.”

After that, a comfortable silence follows. When the potatoes are soft enough, Annie turns off the stove and strains the potatoes in the sink. That frees up the pot for asparagus. It'll boil while she's mashing the potatoes, and the chicken will finish soon, and everything will be done on time. Perfect. She puts cream and butter--hardly believing she owns such luxuries--in the bowl with the potatoes, then turns around to ask Finnick if he would like rosemary on the potatoes as well as the chicken. She finds him with head resting on his folded arms on the table.

“Finnick?” Annie whispers as softly as she can.

No answer. He's out.

Annie tiptoes to her chair and sits down, trying to figure out what on earth to do. The only time she's seen him woken up involuntarily, he came at her with a knife before he realized where he was. She doesn't want to make any sudden noises or movements.

No way to tell how long he'll sleep. Sitting in this position, probably not terribly long? Maybe it's best just to let him wake up on his own. He's mentioned spontaneous catnapping like this before.

Trying not to breathe too loudly or fidget, Annie watches him closely for signs of movement. She'd like to slip quietly out of the kitchen altogether, but he's between her and the exit, and she doesn't want him waking up to think she's advancing on him. She knows absolutely nothing about what will set him off, so she plays it as safe as she can, all the while wondering what in the world possessed her to invite him over at night. When he's awake, Finnick's surprisingly good at putting her at ease, making her laugh and steering her away from the excruciating embarrassment of her madness.

But now, without the constant reassurance that he's here to help, all she can remember is his kills. Spear. Spear. Trident and net. Noose. Trident, finished off with a knife. That wicked smile. _Come and get me._ His face covered in blood. Laughing through his injuries.

Then the world goes to hell. Shrieking. Her hands on her ears. Finnick on his feet. The crash of the chair behind him. Annie in the hall closet with no idea how she got there. She curls up in a ball in the far corner, pressing her fingers hard on her ears and trying to sob quietly so no one can find her.

_They're coming for you...They're coming...You have to be quiet...Can't make a noise...Not like last time, when Evan died protecting you..._

Hunger and thirst. Living on dirty water and bugs. Covered in mud and leaves. Earthquake and flood. Evan dying Evan dying Evan dying. Careers coming. _Ssshh. They want to kill you._

Crashing sounds and cursing that will go away if she just covers her ears harder and reminds herself that it's not real. None of this is real, it's not happening. If she just hunches down further and hides better, it'll all go away, and no one will have to know that she hears things that aren't there. _Sssh, ssh, it's getting quieter, see? No more shrieking._

_But you have to be quieter now, because the shrieking keeps them from hearing you escape, just like the girl from One who was screaming in pain when you ran away, and they didn't chase you, but once she wasn't there you had to hold your breath no matter how scared you were._

_When you make sounds, people die._

“Annie?”

_No. No. You don't have to kill anyone, you just have to be the last one when no one can find you and no one can swim._

“It's all right, I disabled the smoke alarm.”

_Don't come in don't come in don't come in._

“I didn't know what to do with the chicken, but I turned the oven off, and opened the window too. The smoke'll clear out soon. It'll be okay. Scared the hell out of me too.”

She can hear the sound of a body lowering itself to the floor, settling in for a wait. As long as he doesn't come in, that's fine.

Unlike everyone else in the world, Finnick doesn't try to coax her out of her hiding place or get her to say she's all right. Not after the first time. He's concerned, he's not leaving her alone, but at least he's not directly pressuring her. He just keeps up a steady monologue that competes with the chaos in her head.

“Take your time, Annie. I'll need a few minutes too. Everything's all right.”

Annie doesn't know how much time passes. She's figured out that it was just the oven setting off the smoke alarm, but she still needs to be sure Finnick's not going to instinctively hurt her.

“You okay?” is the first thing Annie finally croaks out past the imperative to not make a sound.

“Me? I'm fine. Just had a bit of a scare. You're gonna be okay, just take your time.”

“I don't think I can come out yet.” She knows it's going to sound crazy if she says she thinks she's having a heart attack, but logically, how many more of these episodes can her heart take?

“That's fine. No deadlines to meet. You want a blanket?” And before she can answer that, Finnick is halfway up the stairs. She doesn't dare raise her voice to call him back, not so soon after remembering getting Evan killed with the noise she made in hiding.

A moment later, Finnick passes her a blanket and two pillows through the closet doorway, and then he sits down again on the floor of the hall. “Do you not want me blocking the exit? I can move.”

Annie gratefully puts the pillows underneath and behind her and the blanket around her, but she works her mouth a bit to get up the saliva and courage to say, “That doesn't matter, but can you please not ever go in my bedroom again? It's the only place I have where no one goes.”

“Sure, no, I'm sorry,” Finnick says hastily. “I didn't mean to invade the sanctuary. Won't happen again.”

The amazing thing about Finnick is that he doesn't argue when she says _These are the rules for dealing with my crazy._ She didn't believe it, but Mags said over and over again, “You have to set boundaries. These Careers are not going to hurt you.”

Little, elderly Mags, shorter than Annie, ordering the big scary Careers around on the Victory Tour. So Annie tried. And it's helped. Some people are better than others about understanding where the boundaries are, but that's life, she supposes. She's not sure if she's getting better results from Finnick because she's been able to articulate the rules in more detail with him, or if she's been able to articulate better because experience shows that explaining to him works, but either way, it's getting easier and easier with time.

“Thanks, though," Annie says. "Maybe I'll leave some down here in case this happens again. You can fetch the ones from downstairs if you need to.”

“Just glad they help,” Finnick says, relieved.

“Do you really think it's good for me to spend _more_ time hiding, though?”

Finnick sighs. “I don't know. I just know two things. One, my symptoms have been tapering off with time. And two, it's a hell of a lot easier if I can come down gradually from these things.”

She's been so obsessed with her own panic that she forgot to look past his outward calm. He may be able to pretend where she can't, but she can't let herself forget that it's pretend.

Annie reaches out a hand hesitantly. “You said it _does_ help you to be touched?”

“Yeah,” he says glumly, “but you don't have to. It'll pass on its own.”

“No, come on. I don't think I can move yet, but come here. It'll help me...” _Remember you're not going to attack me._ Annie gestures for him to move inside the closet.

Finnick shifts obligingly close enough so that her hand can reach his back, and somewhat awkwardly, Annie pats it. He sighs and untenses by degrees, until he's slumped against the side of the closet.

She can't imagine anything more terrifying than hands on you when you're panicking, but he says he finds it calming. And as long as it's _her_ hands on _him_ , and she gets to decide when she's ready, she's okay with it. It starts her remembering that this isn't just an interchangeable threat in a Career body, it's a boy with insomnia who doesn't make her feel bad about not taking the Hunger Games in stride.

After a while, Finnick manages to laugh. “You have to admit it's hilarious once you've had a chance to calm down. The adventures of two jumpy victors in Annie's kitchen.”

“My kitchen is cursed!” she bursts out. Trust Finnick to be able to laugh about this. She can't yet, but he's right. None of this would have happened without both of them being messed up.

“Nah,” he drawls, “you said the last chicken turned out fine.”

“You should have come. It was great at four in the morning.” Annie sighs and stretches her legs. “Speaking of which, I guess we should go try to see if this one can be salvaged.”

After poking around in the oven, Annie determines that it was just some grease splatter, and if she cleans it up she can turn on the heat again. The uncovered potatoes have cooled more than she'd like, but they're ready to be mashed, and she can warm them up again briefly before serving. The asparagus has boiled down to pure sogginess, but it won't take long to make another batch.

“Okay, I think dinner is still on,” Annie says with more relief than the situation perhaps calls for, but _something_ has to go right tonight.

“Excellent. And I am in absolutely no danger of falling asleep again, so all will go well this time.”

“Yeah, about that.” How do you ask someone never to fall asleep in your house again? He can't possibly have done it on purpose. “Do you mind pounding these while I take care of the asparagus?” Panic physically exhausts her, and the first few strokes of the potato masher have been a strain.

Finnick accepts the masher and gets to work. Annie throws out the overcooked asparagus and goes to the fridge for more while she tries to think how to open. “Is there...something I should do or not do if you fall asleep? Ground rules?”

“Oh, hmm.” The steady pounding continues while Finnick thinks. “Well, you should feel complimented, first of all. I only fall asleep around other people if it's an emergency, or if I trust them. I've been known to sit down in the shower with the water running as my cover and take fifteen-minute naps in the Capitol because it was the only time alone I could get.

“As for you, I guess the only major rule is don't touch me until I'm awake and know who you are. It helps if you try not to make loud sudden noises, but quiet background noise is fine, like you moving around and cooking. If I fell asleep, I knew you were there and I knew what you were doing, and that's not like being snuck up on when you think you're alone.

“Is that what you were looking for?”

“Yeah, that helps,” Annie says without a lot of conviction.

“Sort of?” Finnick sets the masher down in the bowl and turns around to face her. “What do you need to know, Annie? We talk to each other about our problems.”

“Just...I can try not to make sudden noises, but I can't promise they won't happen anyway, like we just saw, so maybe-” _You shouldn't ever let yourself relax around me?_

Finnick throws his head back and rolls his eyes up to the ceiling in sudden revelation coupled with exasperation, like he can't believe how dense he's been. “Oh, shit. You're remembering the Victory Tour, aren't you? When I came at you with a knife in my sleep because I heard you screaming?”

Annie nods wordlessly. She'll never forget that night, one of the worst in her life. He really was just an interchangeable threat in a Career body that time.

“Okay.” Finnick takes a deep breath. “Well...I can't not react quickly, because people die when I don't. Doors, chairs, these sorts of objects are in grave danger if I'm woken up suddenly. But I will stop and come up with a plan before I attack anyone, because I had that drummed into me at the academy and at home. Don't make a move in the face of anything until you recognize it and you've categorized it into one of: fight it, run from it, or calm the fuck down.

“So I can say confidently that I will not actually attack until I've identified you, at which point you're safe. You may remember me standing over your bed brandishing a knife and looking around trying to figure out what was going on.”

The specific memories are hazy under the raw fear, but she's obviously still alive, and she'd remember being attacked. “You're really sure?”

Finnick looks her steadily in the eye. “I can't promise that if I knock my chair over it won't happen to land on your foot, but I can promise that I won't use the chair as a weapon to attack you. By the time I figure out who you are and what I'm supposed to do with you, I'll put you in the 'calm the fuck down, it's just Annie' category.

“Now remember that all of this goes out the window if you touch me, because I may not kill you until I've assessed the threat, but I will neutralize you first, and you won't like it.”

“I won't touch you,” Annie promises. That's an easy promise to make. “So you just never sleep in a bed in the Capitol?”

“Sometimes I don't have a choice,” he says slowly. “But when I'm in the Capitol I have to reprogram all my reflexes around touch, because my body is basically public property there. If I'm walking through a crowded room, say a party, I have to treat every touch as...a victory, not a threat. So I can be woken up with touch and maybe sit up really fast, but I have to get my smiling face on instantly. It's a whole different set of reflexes. Then I have to come back to Four and start putting in time at the academy and make sure I interpret everything unexpected as possible imminent death. It's very, very...schizophrenic, and it takes a toll.”

“Wow. I don't know how to reprogram my reflexes.”

“I can't say I know how either, I just know that people die if I react wrong. And I can tell you neither of the programs is pleasant, and switching between them is worst of all. You just work on relaxing. You're not in either of my situations at all.”

“I-I'll try.”

Finnick's watching her face closely. “Look,” he says gently, “I can promise not to hurt you. But I know I've scared you, and I know what being scared does to you. I can understand if you don't want to go through that again.”

Annie's relieved he isn't offended, but the whole situation is just painful. “But I also don't want to...I'm sorry you were woken up, and you've been so accommodating with my problems, and I know you have trouble with sleep, and and I wish I could help.”

“You helped me down from the scare. We'll give it time. These things taper off.”

“But what if mine doesn't?” Of all Annie's fears, that's the worst. She can't live like this indefinitely.

Finnick shrugs. “You weren't making chicken and inviting me over six months ago.”

That's true. Six months ago, Mags was still coaxing her through each day.

Still wishing she could do better than freak out over Finnick falling asleep, wishing she could be more supportive, Annie turns back to the one thing she _can_ do right now: serving dinner.

Finnick's appropriately complimentary on the food, but being Finnick, he has to tease her. "Now comes the part where you regret not making it with rosemary last time.”

“No way!” Annie says. “That was so much better. It tasted like lemon and basil, which are two delicious tastes.”

“Well, this one tastes like-" Finnick giggles, but now he's been backed into the silliest possible corner. "Rose and mary."

“Finnick," Annie says with pretend sternness, “I don't want to hear about Rose and Mary and what they tasted like. What happens in the Capitol... _stays in the Capitol_.”

Finnick can't answer right away, because he has to press a napkin hard to his face while laughing uncontrollably with his mouth full and tears streaming down his cheeks. Annie sits smugly while he tries to negotiate a glass of water into helping him swallow.

When he's recovered, he straightens in his seat and raises his glass to her. “Okay, Annie, you win this round. Remind me not to challenge you to a duel of words next time.”

Then there's a pause in the conversation, interrupted by occasional snickers, so they can enjoy the food. “So if you don't cook much, what do you eat?" Annie asks after a while, curious.

“Boring food that doesn't require much preparation, mostly," Finnick answers. "Things I can take to the academy or out on a boat. Then when I have dinner parties at my place, I get them catered from local restaurants. The parties serve three purposes: building a network of contacts in the district, sharing food with people who might not otherwise get this much at one time--people like Marcus' family--and supporting businesses in Four. It works well, and it so happens that I know all the good restaurants around here. I'd be more than happy to take you if you ever wanted to go.”

Annie flinches, and she sees in the flicker of his eyes that he saw it, but sometimes it feels like Mags set the village on a mission to drag Annie out of Crazyland. “I know,” she says, anticipating and preempting his objection, “what do I think is going to happen? But I can't help it, I can't stop imagining the worst.”

“It's not what you think is going to happen,” Finnick corrects, “but what do you think is going to happen that I can't handle? I'm on alert all the time, you've seen me. I'll be on any threat before it even knows what hit it. What are you worried about?” He spreads his hands to encompass the options. “Sharks? Career packs? Lightning bolts? Invasions from outer space? I'm on it, Annie.”

Annie's caught between laughter at his arrogance and a strange relief at getting a different reaction from someone. A reaction that says maybe something is going to happen, and she's not crazy for thinking so. Everyone keeps telling her that she's safe, but she can't believe that. The one thing she's learned in her life is that you're never safe.

Even if he's just being silly and doesn't think anything will happen any more than Mags or Donn do, he's right that his reflexes are still too involuntary. Six years out of the arena is not the same thing as sixty, especially not with so much of those six years spent working at the academy. Taken by surprise, Finnick will still react faster than most people would given time to prepare. Maybe Careers aren't the scariest thing in the world after all. Maybe they can fend off scarier threats if they're on your side.

But there are threats that can't be fought. Annie shakes her head regretfully. “If I have a meltdown in public, you're not going to want to be seen with me, and I can't handle people staring and making comments.”

“They won't be looking at you,” Finnick scoffs, “they'll be looking at me. No one even knows you by sight.”

Now Annie just stares at him. This is the last response in the world she'd been expecting. It's probably true she's not very recognizable as victors go? But it's hardly a solution. “Even if they don't know who I am when I'm screaming and crying, I still can't handle-”

“Look,” Finnick explains with exaggerated patience, “whatever it is you're thinking of doing that's so attention-grabbing, I promise you I can upstage it. You want me to prove it?” He turns smug. “Challenge accepted.”

In the face of this absolute confidence, Annie can only stop arguing and laugh. It's hard to believe, and yet so plausible. She hasn't watched television in a year, but she recognizes this as his camera persona. Compelling, charming, even mesmerizing. She believes that knowing smile utterly.

“Okay,” Annie concedes, choking back her laughter, “but this won't be any fun for you. I can't promise I'll get halfway there without needing to turn back.”

“Not a problem,” Finnick says. “You know, when I was thirteen, I forced my way into the arms class with the seventeen- and eighteen-year-old kids, and I got my ass kicked every time I picked up a weapon. I was not even halfway to beating them. Everyone kept expecting, or hoping, I'd drop out in humiliation, but I saw nothing wrong with regularly ending up flat out on the floor covered in blood and bruises. Made my fucking day.”

Sometimes Annie thinks the invasion from outer space has already begun, in the form of the young man sitting across from her at the table, bragging about losing fights. “Wow, I can see that you're exactly like me in absolutely no way whatsoever.”

Finnick laughs. “Okay, okay. Point taken.”

“But you do understand that for me, setting foot outside is the equivalent of getting beaten up and humiliated?”

“Yes, which is why it's fine if we go out for a nice one-block walk outside the Village and turn around and come home after enjoying—or getting our asses kicked by—some nice fresh air.”

Annie swallows, queasy with her dilemma. He has an answer for all her objections, and she does kind of want her life back. Being too afraid to leave the house doesn't mean never being bored or lonely, and she's both. The days drag on, the house is like a tomb as much as a haven, and she lets her rare visitors in because she's desperate. Then feels worse when their presence is so oppressive all she can do on good days is sob out her exhaustion afterwards in bed, and on bad days hide and hope they go away.

But Finnick breaks the tomb-like silence with laughter, and goes away when it's too much for her. It helps, but it also worries her. He acts like he doesn't mind, but she she can't help wondering when his patience is going to expire.

Then again...crazy boy enjoyed the challenge of getting beaten up by bigger kids. Maybe he doesn't mind her unpredictable moods after all?

“All right,” Annie says, groping for some way that maybe this can work, “I don't think I can go out today, but tell me what it's like? Tell me what to expect?”

“Well, lots of fudge, for one thing,” Finnick begins, and when she sticks out her tongue to say _You know what I mean_ , he supplies her with all the description she could want, of the way there and the layout of the cafe.

“What about the pond,” Annie asks when he's done, “is it closer?”

Finnick shakes his head. “Farther, but in much the same direction. If we ever start going, we can hit the cafe on the way there or back. Maybe one day we can go when it's raining, have a water fight to distract us.” He winks.

Something in Annie melts. She's seen him try to downplay his edginess, and suppress his disappointment when she asks him to leave, but now she's seeing him choose to be vulnerable to her. For under that casual wink was the knowledge that she knows it'll be hard on him, and he's asking her to believe that he knows it'll be hard on her, and maybe they'll make it through this anyway.

_Maybe we will._

Annie puts her hand on the back of his shoulder where she helped him come down from the adrenaline rush earlier. “Better?”

Finnick's smile is blinding. “Better.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of fluff to lighten up the heavy war plotting of _Mags' War_ , which is at 150,000 words and which I promise to get back to now!


End file.
